To Whom She Belongs
by not falling in love
Summary: In the end, it was a simple act. I took his ravaged face between my hands, and as softly as I dared, I kissed his dead lips. -- Christine's search for closure.
1. Chapter 1

It took all of the courage I possessed. I had been slowly coming to realisation that my angel of music was not divine – he was but a man, flesh and blood. If I cut him, he must surely bleed. But if I did this… surely, it would be his death. I saw the love that shone from his eyes, unreserved and pure. It was true that this love had been the cause of many horrible incidents. Looking at it, though, I could see nothing in his eyes but uncomplicated adoration. It was hard to admit, even to myself, that I felt cruel for being unable to return Erik's feelings. I, who had been so wronged by him, felt cruel towards _him_…

In the end, it was a simple act. I took his ravaged face between my hands, and as softly as I dared, I kissed his dead lips. My own recoiled from the lack of heat; I had kissed Raoul before, and knew what living lips felt like. I felt his astonishment, swiftly followed by my own as I involuntarily deepened the kiss, feeling the dark desire grow within me, that elusive and baffling reaction that Erik and Erik alone seemed to provoke in me. This was what terrified me more than anything. I had been a stranger to longings of the heart – since my father passed away, grief was my constant companion. Despite everything, I was still a child. Emotionally underdeveloped. This did not explain the way my Phantom spoke to me, in a language of music and silence that only we could understand.

My mind rationalised that this was all for Raoul. I kissed dead lips for Raoul's sake, to save him. I knew that if I did something so unexpected, an act of pure compassion to a man who had known nothing of the kind… there was a chance that he might react in a way that would surprise us all. My heart had other things to say. It rushed to my throat, blocking all words as I broke away from Erik, my eyes wide and my head spinning. He stared at me, as one of his long, thin hands went to his lips, not quite touching. In that moment, I recognised that I was entirely his. My body, my mind, my heart and my soul, they all belonged to a man, a monster, a phantom. As awareness returned to his amber eyes, I could see that he saw this too. A thousand emotions flitted across his face… bittersweet triumph chased fear, indecision, love, hate, sorrow, black despair, rage…

Suddenly, he shouted, "Take her! Leave me! Do not let them find you…" I could see the tears slipping down his mottled cheeks, hear the break in his beautiful voice as he sobbed midsentence. _What did he just say?_

I stood dumbstruck. This was the outcome I had wanted. Free to leave with my betrothed. Why, then, did it feel like something had been ripped from my heart, and it was bleeding on the floor?

"Christine! Let us leave!" Raoul yelled, his unpolished, rough, childish voice pulling me from my reverie. Mechanically, I rushed over to him and tried to untie him. After a while, I was successful, and he was pulling my hands, grabbing me around the waist, trying to get me to respond rationally – to run, as far away from this evil monster as I could. _Run, Christine, run. Run, little Lotte!_

But as Raoul dragged me towards the boat, I looked back, and saw the slumped shoulders that once were so straight and rigid. He looked at something in his hands, and I saw his back heave with a sob. I had known this would happen. My terror of him, of what he made me feel, had caused me to hurt him like this. For Raoul. I loved Raoul, didn't I? So why did I think these things?

"Wait," I said. Raoul looked at me as if I were insane.

"Christine," he said urgently, "we must get out of here, the sooner the better. Away from that _creature_…"

"Just wait," I said quickly, and kissed him on his living, perfect, smooth cheek. It felt strange, after having touched dead flesh. It felt… I did not think I even wanted to confess to myself what it felt like.

_Wrong_.

I rushed over to Erik. I was wearing his wedding dress, carrying nothing… nothing but the ring Raoul had given me. He did not look up, even though I knew he heard me. His shoulders tensed, as if suddenly he were waiting for fight or flight. As I drew closer, I heard. He was singing under his breath, little golden notes that drove into my ears like arrows. Would I ever hear his beautiful voice again? Would I ever sing with my angel again?

I knelt down beside him, and instantly his eyes snapped to me. There was fathomless despair there… I wanted to cry. A treacherous tear slid down my cheek, and I tasted salt. I took the ring off my finger slowly and deliberately, placing it in his palm. I was careful not to touch him, to reignite that frightening feeling.

He looked at the ring wearily, as if it were the final burden that broke his back, and then gradually turned his tearful gaze to me. In a voice shaking with sorrow, burning with passion, he whispered, "Christine… _I love you_…"

I could not reply. Suddenly, my eyes swam with tears, and I looked away, lest I break down. I ran back to my safe, secure, mundane lover, and clambered onto the boat to stand beside him. I wrapped my arms around his strong frame, and reminded myself what a living man felt like. Why I loved this particular one. It was strange, how our innocent game of hearts had so swiftly turned serious. From the first time I had seen him at the Opera Populaire, I remembered him. The boy who had saved my scarf. The boy who, too, knew my father's stories of the angel of music. Fondness rushed back to me, and I told the angel in the mirror of my joy. How it all began. I was so young then… and I am still so young now. Still a child yet, but not as much as before. I was learning it all as I went along. How I could feel so happy and secure in one set of arms, and terrified, confused and _intoxicated_ in another.

Raoul pushed off the bank, and I turned to look behind, just once more. There he stood, utterly defeated. No masks, not any more. Our eyes met, and once more, that dark and desperate feeling grew inside me, a warmth that made me feel alive, as if I were standing barefoot in a snowdrift, mere moments before hypothermia set in.

The soft sounds of splashing measured out a rhythmic beat, and I felt like singing… I wanted to make music with Erik, like we did before. Invoking heaven with our voices… _Tonight, the angels wept… _My tearful reply… _Tonight, I have given you my soul…_

I was just as confused as before. I loved Raoul, I really did… he was like an unseasonably warm spring day. The chill of winter remains, but you stretch out on the grass in the sunshine, and feel the warmth of the brave sun, promises of long and languorous days to come. Then there were the other feelings. I would like to ignore them. They brought nothing but heartache and anxiety. But they were integral to my journey from child to woman. I was not even close to completing that particular passage, but I was no longer entirely innocent and naive. As much as I did not like it, Erik had, and is helping me to grow up.

We turned around a column supporting the roof of the supernaturally still lake, and suddenly the mournful eyes fixed on mine were gone. All the breath left my lungs, and I squeezed Raoul more tightly, just to assure myself that everything would, will be, _must be_ all right.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime… say the word and I will follow you…_

My body followed with alacrity, but my mind was lost, dwelling on the enigma of what I had left behind.

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**A/N: My first shot at a Phantom fic. Mixture of Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber, interspersed with how it goes in my head. Mostly trying to be faithful to Leroux. Hope you enjoyed – please R&R. I own nothing! If reviews are okay, will continue – have written chapter 2! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Methinks I lied. For the record: I am writing this based on the events of the musical, but with the characterisation described by Leroux. Anyway, that should not detract too much. Erik says reviewers are the kind of people who don't get Punjab-lassoed! :D**

**I hope you all enjoy chapter 2! :) **

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The days were still cold, but it was obvious that winter had relinquished Paris from its grip. Snow was still deep on the streets, but the skies shone clear and blue. I took a walk every day, from Raoul's apartments to the botanic park. I would sit in the gazebo and watch the lake slowly unfreeze. I was always offered accompaniment, but I refused. I enjoyed the time alone, to struggle with my thoughts away from the comfort of the de Chagny townhouse. I observed the wildlife slowly begin to stir, my nose numb with cold. A pair of swans now took to the icily clear water, drifting where they would, slave to no one. No expectations. No regrets. No confusion, churning away like a tempest in the region of the heart.

I was the Comtesse de Chagny in everything but name. The date of our wedding was set for the end of September. I accompanied Raoul to every social engagement, and was charming and polite, always in a gown Raoul had taken care to buy for me. They were always gorgeous, dripping with lace and embroidery, but I was apathetic towards their apparent beauty. The crème-de-la-crème of Parisian society congratulated M. de Chagny on marrying such a beautiful and polite girl; an opera singer, la, how cosmopolitan! No matter, no matter, they said with a white smile, surely she will bring honour to the Chagny family. Especially after the death of Phillipe… sad, so sad, with a little frown. Whatever was the cause for that? A sly glance. I could read their thoughts in their eyes, no matter how carefully their facade was constructed – this girl, the cause of so much bother? Surely not…

Outwardly, I was accepted, and that was all that mattered. Raoul became more doting by the day, his presents becoming ever more lavish and expensive. I had nothing to reciprocate with, which bothered me somewhat. He soon brought me a new ring; it was a hideous thing, bristling with diamonds and sapphires, more becoming of a true diva such as La Carlotta than an obscure orphan.

"It is beautiful!" I had exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, and kissed him. However, he had not allowed me to draw away, as was chaste. Instead, he put his arm around my waist, and pulled me closer, his lips uncomfortably warm and forceful on mine. He started to stroke the front of my bodice, before I tore myself away. This side of Raoul scared me. It was like he did not care for what it was I wanted, nor what was proper. I was breathing hard… I felt violated. I wondered why. He was my fiancée, after all. Maybe it was just that my body had shrieked a violent and emphatic _NO! _when his lips had crushed down on mine.

"I am sorry," he had said, not looking sorry at all. "I lost control of myself…"

I said nothing. He looked at me strangely, and said, "I cannot wait until we are married, Christine. I love you so much it hurts!"

We had spent the rest of that day innocently enough, with a walk to a restaurant. I kept my resentment to myself. Raoul, childish Raoul… how much he had changed. I was not sure I liked it. The truth was… I was not ready. I did not _want_ that from him. To tell the truth, I never had. When I kissed him, I imagined the little boy I had grown up with. I did not see a man. I knew he was, though, somewhere in the rational part of my mind, and I knew that he loved me. That should be enough. I could not make that little voice in the back of my head be silent, though. It was the one that said, _Marriage is for grown-ups. Not a man-child and a half-woman, whose heart holds nothing but doubt_. That was the voice I conversed with on the lake.

I refused to sing. Every note, every bar, every little aria reminded me of the hours in front of my dressing room mirror, with my relentless angel, shaping my immature voice into an instrument of beauty. When I sung, it was for him. Always. And in the Opera House… it was his domain. He would hear me, I knew it. I wanted to cause no more pain. _But what if he is no longer there?_ I asked myself. No matter. In my heart, I knew that the Opera House would always be his. Even if Erik wasn't there. So, La Carlotta remained the diva of the iron hand, and I heard all the tales from Meg about her latest explosion, when she came to visit. But I would not go back. Not even to hear someone _else_ sing.

This hurt me more than I let on. I told Raoul that I did it because I would have to give up my life at the Opera to become his wife, which was true. I felt empty without music, like the skeleton of my soul had been suddenly removed. But I had to take control somehow, even if it ached without pause. I _had_ to keep my thoughts away from my poor Erik. It was the only way I knew how, and sometimes it even worked. But there was no way I could completely keep my mind away from the subject.

One morning, I awoke to weak sunlight streaming in through the lace curtains. I got out of bed and padded to the window, peering down onto the streets. The hustle and bustle of Parisian life was already in full swing, and I suddenly resolved to go for a walk. Turning back to my light-filled room, I was glad for the lack of a mirror. That would be too much of a reminder. It was then I noticed the envelope on the carpet near the door.

The note read:

_My dearest love,_

_I am forced to attend some family business in the countryside. I shall be gone for a few days, a week at most. I am sorry I did not know of this sooner, and that I must leave so abruptly – it is urgent. I am reluctant to leave you alone, love, but I hope you understand. _

_While I am gone, every thought of mine is yours. It is spring today – have you seen? Our wedding draws closer. Think of it._

_My heart is yours, now and for eternity,_

_Your Raoul._

I felt a lightening of the burden on my mind – he was gone for a few days. Merciful God, that was just what I needed. A little bit of borrowed time, to sort out the snarls in my tangled thoughts. I tried not to dwell too much on his hyperbolic declarations – they made me feel a little queasy. It was like… the assertions of a child. _I will never forget you, mademoiselle_… well, that particular one was kept. Nonetheless, they had a light feel about them… like they were promises of gossamer and spun glass.

I shook the thoughts from my head, and dressed swiftly in a plain gown. I tied my hair back carelessly, the curls being disobedient today. There was a soft knock at the door, and the maid entered.

"Mademoiselle, are you ready for breakfast?"

"Most certainly," I said with a smile, struggling for the girl's name. "I will be down shortly."

She dipped a curtsey. "As you wish, mademoiselle."

The table was only set for one when I went downstairs, but there was enough food for a small army, possibly. I was only one little girl! Such decadence made me feel uncomfortable. In the Opera, the ballet girls were on a strict, frugal diet, and indulgence was rare. I was used to eating lightly and often, as was the regimen. The rich, abundant food here was alien, and I was not entirely sure I liked it, or could get used to it. There were surely a thousand starving people in Paris who would appreciate it more than I.

Feeling pressured by the sheer volume of food available, I ate too much, and felt poorly soon after. My walk suddenly became necessary.

"I shall be out for a few hours," I told the hovering maid.

"Does mademoiselle require company?" she asked politely.

"No," I said firmly. "I wish to be alone."

"Certainly, mademoiselle," she said, curtseying. That irritated me for some reason. I swallowed the feeling, and gave a slight curtsey back. I threw a cloak over my shoulders as I left the townhouse at a brisk walk, for the air was still chill and my breath created a cloud of mist. My throat soon started to ache, but I ignored it, and only increased my pace.

Anonymity was soothing. Nobody wanted anything from you when you are in a crowd. Eyes slide off you as if you are invisible. Nobody says, "Oh, the soon-to-be Comtesse!" or, "The little diva, Christine Daaé!" You're just another face on the streets.

I was soon at my favourite bench, where I sat down with a huff. I had walked off the heaviness of breakfast, and felt a lot more comfortable. Especially away from Raoul's house. A week to myself. I was thankful. As he became more attentive, I was becoming more withdrawn, and I thought he was starting to notice. I could not help it. I was never good at lying, and especially not when there was so much at stake. Marriage… it was not a transient phase. Marriage was binding, supposedly for eternity. I shivered at the thought of eternity.

The pair of swans were waddling across the green, preening each other's gorgeous feathers. I watched their progress, the transformation from unwieldiness to grace and elegance as they entered the water. There was not a breath of wind to be found, and their entrance sent ripples across the glassy mirror of the lake, distorting the image of the cloud-strewn sky fringed by skeletal trees. I observed their love-addled ramblings despondently. How carefree. Light and happy. I put my chin on my hand and sighed deeply.

What a mess.

I tried to be firm with myself, and ask definite questions.

_Do you love Raoul_? Yes, of course.

_Do you want to marry him?_ Ye… well… Am I _ready_ for that? Is _he_ ready for that? Are we still the children, delightedly playing a game of hearts? No, we aren't. But.… Can I cope as a comtesse? Can I spend the rest of my life with a boy I love _as the half-child he is_, watching him grow into a man I don't know I will like… sleep in his bed, share his society, bear his children, through thick and thin, til we grow bent and wrinkled… a life spent not knowing anything but stale, back-stabbing aristocracy, my mundane lover, a house I was uncomfortable in, although perhaps I could grow accustomed…

I did believe he loved me. Despite his behaviour, and his immaturity, I did believe that. I still saw him – and myself – as a child, and therein was the problem. He was my best friend… was that _enough?_

My head went round and round, questions chasing the tails of questions until I developed a headache. I was interrupted by an offended honk and the rush of wings as one of the swans – I suspected it was the female – took flight over my head.

If only I could too.

The rest of the day I spent wandering, trying especially hard to think of nothing at all. I went to a market, and purchased an apple for my lunch. I ate it on a bench, watching the passing traffic. Late in the afternoon, showers swept in, and there was a scramble for shelter as the deluge hit the streets. I sat in the rain, unable to find the energy to move. I could pretend it was cleansing me of doubt and uncertainty; that it all just washed away, and I would be left calm, happy to be marrying my childhood sweetheart.

Children believe in the power of miracles. I did not believe that a miracle would occur, as I knew that merely wishing a problem away never worked. At least I was that mature. But I still hoped in a corner of my heart, that a magical cure would chance along. I was a half-child faced with decisions that would decide the rest of my life and I was petrified of making the wrong choice.

I returned to the house, and picked at an opulent dinner for one. Afterwards, I dismissed all of the staff, and retired to the drawing room with a book of poetry. I read until late in the night, trying not to remember the opera associated with this particular epic. The fire was so pleasant, and eventually, my eyelids grew heavy.

I climbed the stairs sleepily, glad that my room was only two doors down the corridor. I opened the door, and frowned at the chill in the room. It appeared that the window had been left open, as the lacy curtains billowed with a gust that raised goose-bumps on my arms. I went to the window and shut it. I wondered how that could have happened. I did not open it this morning, and nor would any of the maids be so slovenly as to leave it ajar.

It was then I saw what rested on my pillow.

I froze on the spot. My heart stopped beating, as ice flooded my veins.

It was a single red rose, perfect, the colour of blood on snow.


End file.
